War World: Jihad!

by John F. Carr

  The man agreed, and soon the unit continued their march, forming up with a platoon ahead of the caravan, a platoon behind, and the supply train that had rejoined them following close behind the wagons. That night, the wagons circled tight, and the troop realized there were women on the wagons, who prepared a lamb dish that was swapped for beans and hardtack. The caravan leader also offered two bottles of whiskey to the Captain, who accepted, and relaxed discipline a bit to allow each trooper a shot in thanks for their efforts.

  A mournful note rang out into the night. “Shit,” the Captain said, as he rose and headed over to a cluster of men who were settled down for the night.

  “Hand it over, Smith,” he growled.

  “But sir,” the trooper protested, as he handed over a harmonica, “what’s the harm in a little music?”

  “I’ve told you before,” the Captain said. “Music carries a long way on the plains, and distracts lookouts from their duties. Stick to your bugle.”

  “You want me to play that? Now?”

  “Don’t be a wise guy. I’ll give this back when we return to Fort Camerone.”

  “Well, okay, but take care of it, sir.”

  The Captain snorted, and headed back to the spot where the officers had gathered.

  The men were buzzing with conversation that would no doubt continue long into the evening, everyone still excited by their brush with action. Andre and the other officers were busy discussing the day’s events themselves.

  “Didn’t you say, that this unit wasn’t intended to fight from horseback?” Andre asked.

  The Captain grinned back at him. “We weren’t fighting, we were intimidating. And that’s why I ordered the men to halt without pursuing. Too much chance that we would see an ambush or resistance if we tried following them. As it was, we accomplished the rescue without having to fire a shot. I hope the story of this encounter spreads. Rampant banditry is one of the reasons this unit was formed. It feels good to know that we’re already having an impact.”

  * * *

  The Mahdi stepped off the helicopter at their mountain base deep in the Girdle of God mountains. The crews quickly slid camouflage netting into place over the craft. While the CoDominium didn’t know a base like this existed, and probably wasn’t even searching for it, they couldn’t be too careful. Even the fact that they had helicopter capability was well hidden from the CoDominium authorities, with the craft never flying closer than thirty kilometers to any town or outpost. If this base was discovered too soon, the damage to their cause would be difficult to imagine.

  Barbarossa was standing there to meet him. The Mahdi was a tall man, but this great beast of a man was even larger, and the beast-like appearance was amplified by his huge voice, muscular build and wild shock of red beard that sprouted from every part of his face except the eyes and nose. The Mahdi thought about his wife’s dislike of the man, but put it out of his head. He gave his wife great powers over those parts of society where a woman’s skills were a benefit. But he would not take her advice in matters of war. The struggle of the Faithful had started long before he had arrived in Haven, and Barbarossa had been at his back, or at his side, more times than he could count.

  By Barbarossa’s side stood the military advisors who had been imported from the world of Levant, Sirdar Moulay Idris and Colonel bin Abdul-Aziz. With its predominantly Muslim population, the Levantines had a lot of sympathy for the Mahdi’s movement. The Brotherhood had made the initial contacts and before long, weapons, materials and even personnel had flowed to Haven.

  But Barbarossa did not trust these newcomers with their rules and discipline. Their short hair and moustaches reminded him of the Ba’athists who had harassed his father during his childhood in Syria, secular men who turned their back on the faith. Once, Barbarossa had been the Mahdi’s principal deputy on military matters, but more and more it was these interlopers who dictated their course of action.

  They walked through nets of camouflage material into a series of large caverns, expanded by human engineering. All around him, the Mahdi saw everything from small trucks to heavy battle tanks, the room swarming with technicians. Troops in ranks were doing calisthenics, others were gathered around maps and sand tables, others still were moving here and there, a hive of activity. Everyone was in military garb, trousers and coats of mottled brown, with heavy boots. Their only traditional attire was the turbans on their heads, and even these were of the same mottled color as their other clothing.

  Every detail reinforced the sense of order and uniformity. The Mahdi knew that much of this activity was for his benefit; the Sirdar, Colonel bin Abdul-Aziz, Barbarossa and the others all wanted to look good in front of their leader. Still, the progress that the materials supplied by the Brotherhood and the Levantines had supported was impressive, regardless of the window dressing.

  They moved into passages carved from rock and well lit by artificial lighting provided by more bulbs than the Mahdi had seen on one place since he had left Earth all those years ago. They entered a conference room and everyone inside rose to attention. Here the military leadership wore the same garb as their troops outside, although theirs was pressed and creased, with an insignia of their rank adorning their shoulders. It made the Mahdi proud to see the green colors and white crescent of their movement among those insignia. It was not only the infidels who held the trappings of power.

  There was a projector on the table connected to a computer, and a junior technician sat at the machine. It was bin Abdul-Aziz who gave the initial briefing. He went through the strength of the CoDominium forces first. Concentrated primarily in the Shangri-La Valley, they were a potent force, more and more mechanized with each passing year. The CD Marines were bringing in more helicopters and fixed-wing liftcraft, and the mobility of their forces was increasing. They also had the advantage of the ‘high ground’ of space, with reconnaissance capabilities beyond anything the Faithful could muster. And while they were not often used, they also had Thunderbolts, small but potent kinetic energy weapons, projectiles that could be launched from orbit, and precision guided to devastating effect.

  The briefing went on to describe the planetary militia, the Haven Volunteers, another growing force to contend with. The briefing touched on the formation of the new horse cavalry unit, now on its first maneuvers outside the vicinity of Eureka. There were snickers at this, but the Mahdi stilled them. Horses were part of life on Haven and would be for many years to come. His statement that the use of this resource was a sign of wisdom, not desperation, stilled the detractors.

  Then the briefing turned to the strength of the Faithful. In a program developed by Barbarossa, small arms had been pouring out of the mountain retreat and across the steppes. The price for these treasures had been a pledge to the Faithful’s militia and an agreement to participate in military training. These loosely organized units were controlled by local tribal chiefs loyal to the Mahdi, giving him additional influence among the clans and tribesmen. In addition to this militia, the regular forces that were the backbone of their military forces, led by Sirdar Idris, were growing larger every day. Armor, mechanized infantry, artillery, logistics and even heavy airborne rotary-wing lift. All trained to operate in concert with the militias.

  Finally Barbarossa rose to give the last portion of the briefing himself. The Sirdar had not agreed with this, but Barbarossa had insisted that it was something the Mahdi needed to hear. The presentation was an impassioned plea for action. Barbarossa pointed out that the Faithful now had a military to surpass any other force on the planet. He argued that this summer was the time for them to strike, to take the mining towns of the steppes and negotiate from a position of strength with the mining companies the next time their shuttles arrived.

  Next, he outlined a carefully-drawn plan for invading the Shangri-La Valley, both with an infantry force coming through the passes over the Atlas Mountains and a mechanized assault to overwhelm the new Marine outpost at the head of the southern entrance to the valley in the Karak
ul Pass. That assault force would then move down the banks of the river, or even travel downriver on captured barges.

  The Mahdi felt like frowning, but kept his face impassive. He looked to the Sirdar, and knew that the man was not in favor of this course of action. But the Sirdar was in the minority on this issue. The Mahdi could sense the frustration from the others in the room. For a decade these men had worked to build this force. And unlike a knife, which could sit in a drawer forever until needed, an army could not wait forever.

  He asked once again about the status of plans to infiltrate the CoDominium’s space forces and, once again, heard how hard it was to get anyone from their movement into a billet on even one of the orbiting stations, with even the lowest of billets requiring a high degree of skills and training.

  Barbarossa sat heavily. He knew the Mahdi saw the presence of those orbiting stations as a deal breaker, something that could stymie their military efforts. He could see that the man was willing to wait some more. And when the Mahdi spoke, he confirmed it.

  “I appreciate all that you do. And our time will come soon. But it has not come yet. Every day, they send more transportees to swell the ranks of the Faithful. Every week, more military stores arrive from our friends in the Brotherhood and on Levant. Every summer, the farms of our people expand across the steppes. Every year, our industries and capabilities grow. There is growth among our opponents, but not nearly as much as our growth. Time is on our side. And you have my thanks for being patient.”

  The last statement was made with his eyes on Barbarossa. Now it was the big man’s turn to remain impassive, a task he was not well suited for. Barbarossa looked at the satisfaction in Sirdar Idris’s eyes, and burned with anger. He hated seeing the Sirdar win the discussion without even saying a word.

  There was more discussion after that, but everyone could see that the Mahdi was resolute in his decision.

  There were many more activities for the Mahdi that day, dinner with troops, speaking with a variety of units, even target practice with some of the newest weapons received from Levant and the Brotherhood.

  When the Mahdi boarded the helicopter again later in the evening, he was filled with pride. If only he didn’t have to hold this force in reserve. But there was no sense in striking before they were ready, or attempting to gain through military power what could better be gained through political or economic means. If they succeeded, they could build a new Caliphate, a Muslim society like the one their ancestors had built but failed to keep back on Earth. But if they failed, the Muslim people would face more decades, if not centuries, of subservience and domination.

  * * *

  Company A moved at a more relaxed pace as they traveled with the caravan. It gave the troopers a chance to rest, and they mingled a bit with the people of the caravan as they continued on. The Muslim women, due to the customs of the Faithful, were strictly off limits to the male troopers, although a few of the troopers had to be warned away from flirting. The women appeared fascinated by the female troopers, Swenson and Jacobs. They wanted to talk to them constantly, but after a time were told not to have any contact with them by men of the caravan who seemed threatened by the thought of armed women being treated as equals.

  The Company learned quite a bit from the caravan. Where to find waterholes near the trail. What vegetation to avoid and where the horses and mules could forage. What animal life, like the tamerlanes, was dangerous, and what was benign. But after the better part of an H-week, a week spent passing through barren vistas of barren earth and rocky outcroppings, punctuated only occasionally by any plants at all, they were glad to see their destination, a CoDominium fort called Fort Abomey, located about halfway along the trade trail between the Dire Lake region and the Girdle of God Mountains, and near a crossing with another major north-south trail.

  The fort was a shabby-looking earthen structure, not too much different from Fort Camerone. It sat on a hill, overlooking a small, seedy town, a town that appeared to be barely supporting itself. There was a spring and a small stream running through the town, and along it were some small farms that appeared to be hand irrigated—a tough way to raise crops. There was a painted sign on one of the buildings in town that announced BEER, which had the troopers buzzing with anticipation.

  The Marines were definitely keeping an eye on the trail, because a military truck rolled up soon after the unit spotted the fort in the distance.

  “You the First Cavalry, Haven Volunteers?” a sergeant asked from a small machine gun turret on the top of the truck’s cab. “They radioed us that you would be coming.”

  “That’s us,” Captain Flint replied, a bit surprised that they were able to get the radios working, Haven being notorious for its terrible atmospherics, which made any long range communications spotty at best.

  The Captain ordered everyone to brush down, feed and water their horses before doing anything else. He tasked First Platoon to keep watch on their mounts and gear, and released Second Platoon to check the town out, although he figured that their idea of checking would involve heading directly toward the BEER sign. He had all the officers come with him to call on the fort’s commanding officer, and also brought along a grumpy First Sergeant, who obviously had been hoping for a chance to check that building under the sign.

  They trooped into a small conference room, and were motioned to sit at a long table. The local CO, CD Marine Major O’Donnell, a short, wiry black man, worked his way around the table, making introductions. He offered them iced coffee, and asked them how their journey had gone.

  “I’m envious of your horses,” the Major said. “I have four trucks to patrol my zone, and can only keep one or two running at any given time. You wouldn’t believe how many parts are on backorder.”

  The Captain smiled. “That isn’t what your Colonel says back at Fort Camerone. He thinks our unit is some sort of joke.”

  “Well,” the Major said, looking conspiratorial, “it wouldn’t be the first time the old man was wrong.”

  They all chuckled at that, but then the Captain turned to a serious note. “How’s your situation here? From what we can see, you have things pretty well in hand around here.”

  “I like to think we do okay, but things sure could be better. We have a mixed population in this town, people of different religions living side by side. Most folks are too poor to put on airs or think they’re better than other people. The Muslims look to a tribal chief for guidance, and believe it or not, he was elected mayor by the entire population. He can’t use his religious rulebooks on people outside his religion, but he is pretty open-minded.”

  “Are my men safe if they do a little drinking while they’re in town?” asked the Captain.

  “Yes,” the Major answered, “as long as you make sure they don’t cause any trouble, damage anything, or try anything funny with a girl who isn’t a consenting adult. You know the drill.”

  The Captain nodded. “We’ll put out four men as military police, wearing armbands to identify themselves, two near the bar, and two walking the streets. I figure that should keep things in check. With a dimday leading into a truenight, I figured to stay here a couple of days, let each of my platoons have a day of rest and relaxation, replenish some of our supplies.”

  “That’s acceptable,” the Major replied.

  The conversation turned to what each organization could do for the other, what the Marines might do for the Militia and vice versa, skills and gear they could swap. And then the Major briefed them on what they could expect on the trail ahead, at least to the edge of his patrol area. And finally, he invited them to movie night. The Marines had some old John Wayne cavalry movies they liked to watch and wanted the Militia to watch them, too, and give their opinion on how realistic the old dramas were.

  * * *

  A’isha heard the front door open without anyone knocking. There was only one person who her bodyguards would let do that.

  She rose from the chair where she was sitting, and ran for the door.
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br />   “My love,” she cried. But she stopped in her tracks when she saw Tawfiq. He was dusty, his clothes rumpled, and he looked at her with dead, tired eyes. For once, in his weariness, she was seeing Tawfiq the man, and not the Mahdi, the religious prophet.

  “Do you have anything to make a quick meal?” he asked, his voice weary. “And can you make some tea?”

  “Of course,” she said, taking his coat and turban, and helping him to his favorite chair. She went into the kitchen, started the propane stove, put on a kettle, opened a tin of meat, cut some bread and prepared a sandwich for him and one for herself, since she hadn’t eaten dinner yet. When everything was ready, she put it on a tray and carried it out to him.

  He nodded his thanks, took a sip of tea and dug into the sandwich like he was starving.

  “Hard day?” she asked.

  He simply grunted. Then she remembered the recent letter from Faryal, went to get it, and showed him the picture. “Look at the children, don’t they look well?”

  He scowled, “What is she wearing? Is that what passes for clothing where she and the African live?”

  “He is not an African,” she said, “and why do you keep calling him that? He is father to your grandchildren, and by all accounts, a fine father.”

  Tawfiq snorted, reminded her to keep the picture well hidden and fell silent. She had no idea what he was thinking about, but he was gone, lost in thought. She thought about talking about her day, the latest developments in the transportee program, but decided that he wouldn’t care to listen.

  Instead she pulled out her knitting. She was working on a hat for little Nabil, something she could send with a reply to their letter. Tawfiq fell asleep in the chair, and she went to bed alone. When she woke up in the morning, he was gone again.

  She sighed, and went about her daily business.

  * * *